Mine
by Gryph
Summary: A little Valentine's Day story, zombie style. Missing Scene from 3.06 Hounded.


_Braced myself for the "Goodbye"  
'Cause that's all I've ever known  
Then you took me by surprise,  
You said, "I'll never leave you alone."  
I fell in love with a careless man's careful daughter  
She is the best thing that's ever been mine._

Daryl pounded the knife into the concrete floor of the prison again. Carol's knife. He'd pulled it out of a walker's neck, proof that the old girl had gone down swinging, clinging to a chance to live with desperate determination. He took in a shuddering breath and leaned his head back against the wall.

He held onto the anger, because if he was mad enough he wouldn't cry. He wouldn't—

Damn it!

The door across from him rattled again, pushing futilely against the body of a dead walker that blocked it. It could open only a couple of inches before hitting a putrid arm and swinging closed again. But the walker inside was a damn persistent fuck who kept trying to push it open again and again. Could probably smell the fresh meat just outside, just out of reach.

He brought the knife down again, watched the tip of the blade chip a small hole in the crumbling concrete. if he blunted the edge, he didn't care; he could always sharpen it up later, keep it as an extra weapon. He'd tuck it away in a pocket, maybe use it to gut the next walker he had to dance in real close with, and remember Carol's hand on it before his.

Creak, creak. The door inched open again. Creak, creak.

His chest heaved as he gasped for air. Anger and grief wrestled in his mind, in his heart, and for a moment, he felt like he was going to be swallowed by it. He slammed the hand holding the knife against the wall just to feel the sting as the pitted surface dug into the skin on his knuckles.

God damn it all to hell!

He pushed himself to his feet and lashed out with a foot to kick the door closed. The metal thudded dully. With any luck, the walker inside had gotten a good smack in the face. Daryl stomped down the hallway a few dozen feet, then turned and strode back the other way. He wished someone was here to tell him what to do, how to get beyond these feelings of confusion and the constant ache that had settled into his chest. He felt like someone had scooped out everything behind his ribs, and his heart and lungs just didn't know to stop working.

He whirled around again when the door began its steady creak, creak.

The walker trapped in that cell was pissing him off. _Time to dance with the devil_.

He slapped the knife hilt between his teeth so he could use both hands to haul away the body in front of the door, then shifted the knife back into an overhanded grip. Yanking the door open with a metallic squeal that reverberate in the narrow hallway, he lunged forward, intent on planting the knife to the hilt in the walker's forehead.

Except in the dim light, he could barely make out a small form huddled on the floor. When she turned her face toward him into the light, he felt his heart stop.

Her cheeks and eyes were sunken and dry, and a streak of blood stained her forehead. She squinted into the light, her eyes barely able to stay open. He reached down to cup her chin and tilt her head, checking for bites and scratches under the blood. But none of it seemed to be hers.

"My hero," Carol croaked through cracked lips, barely able to raise her voice above a whisper. Her eyes, though, spoke volumes more.

_T-Dog died to buy my escape._

_I was afraid, but I fought for my life._

_I knew you would find me._

_I'll never leave you alone._

_I believe in you._

He grabbed his crossbow from where it leaned against a wall and slung it over his shoulder. Then he gathered her up in his arms. Her head fell against his chest with a soft exhalation, but she didn't even have the strength to put her arms around his neck. She hung like a limp dishrag cradled against him.

Stepping nimbly over the bodies, he quickstepped his way back toward the safety of their cell block. As he entered the gate, he yelled for Herschel. No one answered.

Shit.

He could do this, take care of Carol until the others returned. If she'd been trapped in that cell for the last two days, she was probably dehydrated. Water, she needed water. And then some food. He'd need to check her over more closely for bites and scratches, too.

When he put her on the mattress in the cell she'd been using, she moaned and opened her eyes briefly, but the heaviness pulled her lids back down again.

Daryl darted out of the cell to grab a couple of bottles of water. He pulled a bandana out of his back pocket and soaked it from one of the bottles. He hooked a chair with a foot to pull it closer to the bedside. When he pressed the wet cloth to Carol's face, the skin seemed to drink up the moisture, and her eyes fluttered open again.

He scooped an arm behind her head to raise her up little so she could drink, only letting her have small sips. He felt like he should say something to ground her, to reassure, but he was never good with words of comfort. And the words left unspoken between them were a wall he'd built up, stone by stone, until he'd found himself surrounded and isolated from the one thing he wanted more than anything in this awful, fucked up world.

Time to smash down that wall. He moved from the chair to perch on the edge of the bed, his hip pressing into hers.

"You are one crazy lucky woman. We all thought you were dead." He ducked his head as he rolled his eyes at his own awkwardness. _Smooth, Daryl, real smooth. That's not what you want to say, and you know it. Stop being a damn coward._

Carol muttered something, but it came out slurred and too soft past her parched tongue.

He leaned a little closer, turning his ear toward her face. "What?"

"Got nine lives," she whispered again. "Harder to kill than a mean ol' alley cat."

He chuckled, then on impulse, slipped his hand into hers. Her fingers wrapped around his with a ferocious and unexpected strength, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

He pushed the bottle of water toward her again, and she pulled on his hand to sit more upright. After she took a few sips, she leaned into his chest and let out a hitching breath.

"Carol—," he stopped when he felt her tremble and shudder. "You did good. And... and I don't think I've ever been happier to see anyone as I was to see you." That was about as close to an awkward declaration of affection as he was capable of right now.

Her shaking changed tenor, and he could tell that she was snickering, pulled back from the brink of losing control of her grief. She sniffed and reached up to wipe at her nose with the back of the hand holding the water bottle, then covered the movement by taking another swig. "So romantic," she teased, but the words lacked any sting.

_I'll show you romantic, woman,_ Daryl thought as he dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. She pulled back a little, her mouth hanging open slightly with surprise. He looked away quickly. "You should eat something. I think we got some applesauce left."

But when he got up to fetch the rest of the scavenged jar, he was pulled up at arm's length for the briefest moment as she squeezed his hand before letting go.

_Mine_, it said.


End file.
